A Walk in the Snark (5 page)

Or, in
Brocode
speak: are you putting bros before ‘hos? (Don’t. Get. Me. Started.)

Sometimes you just have to man up and do the yucky stuff, dude. There will be other games (not to mention the DVR) and honestly, is it her fault that you were such a doofus that you forgot about the big game and committed to your wife in the first place? Where is that iPhone when you need it?

Seriously. She’s not your mother.

Grow the hell up, babes (you might want to check those vows again, too).

It’s these little things that can get bigger and bigger and bigger that will eventually cause huge rifts in your relationship.

Another example, if I may.

Say you volunteer to pick up Mexican food for your girl ’cause she’s been working hard all day. Sweet, right?

Until you forget the taco sauce.

And what kind of a guy gets takeout Mexican food, brings it
all the way home
, and forgets the taco sauce?

Well, the kind who wants to go right back, of course.

We gals are quite thrilled that you bring us food. Really. We are. But we’re not dudes. We don’t wolf it down just to fill our stomachs, you know?

“It’s fine,” she tells you.

Sooo not.

We like to actually
taste
our food. We savor it. We
like
our taco sauce.

Lucky for you, we have vaginas, because of course, we have taco sauce in our Forgetful Man Secret Stash Drawer for just this occasion (along with soy sauce, chopsticks, straws, napkins, Coffeemate and Sugar in the Raw (don’t even get me started on the Tragic Coffee Run Mishap of 2009, best covered in an entirely different post).

You laugh, but at the time it can frustrate the heck out of a chick that’s in the mood for something kinda spicy. Because it points to a larger issue—that you don’t take the time to check that all her favorite little accoutrements are there. It’s about thoughtfulness on a whole other level.

(And we like the cute little tiny packets. We ARE girls, after all.)

See guys, what looks like taco sauce is truly a matter of trust. (You can take a minute here if you need to.)

So, we’ve covered commitment and trust in today’s lesson of
I’m Fine, Deconstructed
, and now we’ve come to the end of this little stroll of enlightenment, fellas. As I tentatively hand you this secret decoder ring, my heart filled with hope and promise, I leave you with this warning—we chicks are a darn tricky bunch. We tend to speak in riddles and, as evidenced by these past two pieces, what we say is
clearly
not what we mean.

Sure, life would be simpler if the opposite were true.

It would also be easier if you guys could actually function in the presence of cleavage, but sadly, that’s not the case.

This piece has been sanctioned by The UN Committee of the Ambassador’s Office for the Improvement of Male-Female Relationships, which doesn’t exist and I totally made up, but which OMG, should.

***

“
Me to my 5yr old: What starts w a C that Mommy drinks a big cup of every AM? Him: Vodka. Me: #soclosedude”

CHICK TIME, DECONSTRUCTED

Even without an official UN Committee, my husband and I have worked out a little translating of our own. Like:…(Me: How much will that computer cost, honey? Him: As much as your new black suede Pradas. Me: Got it.) Grocery lists help, though even those truly do require a UN translator at times, which honestly, couldn’t we all use one of those at one time or another?

However, when it comes to reading clocks in our home, well, this one is all on me.

Thank God for cell phones, computers, and the cable box, ‘cause honestly, my poor family would have absolutely no idea what time it is in the real world.
Hey, living on Chick Time gets us places in a timely manner. So shut up.

“Honey,” I ask my love, “what time is it?”

My husband responds with The Look. Ya know, the ‘couldn’t if I wanted to’ look we gals know oh so well.

It’s my own fault, though. You see, all of the clocks in our home are set to
Chick Time
.

Even if he wanted to give me the time, which he does, he really,
really does
, he can’t.

Because, you see, I set my clocks to what my husband calls “Rachel time.” In Rachel world, this means that every clock is ten minutes early. (Well, some are five minutes. It depends on where they are in the house.) Seriously, if you’re a girl, you already know this. Boys, I suppose I’ll have to explain it to you below. Though honestly, if you’re a gay man,
we aren’t even having this conversation
.

In the real world, this means that I am never late. (I’m not the only chick who does this, you know. Every woman I
know
does this. Even Monica on
Friends
did it. If you don’t remember it, you should watch her explain it to Richard along with her other neurotic quirks which, by the way, make total sense to me—particularly when it comes to a “tape emergency.” Words to live by, baby.)

Guys need to understand that women don’t live by regular, old,
boring
time. Oh no,
that
would be too easy. And, of course, normal. We realize it’s messed up, but to be honest, we don’t care. Men need to accept this and realize it comes with the
boobs
.

It’s a well-known fact that women innately understand this concept of time disruption from a very early age. It is also true that men have no clue about it. And never will.

Chicks run on the “every clock has to be different” rule. Am I right, girls? Therefore, our clocks—bedroom, bathroom, cell phone, kitchen, and cars—are ALL set to different times. Not only has this accomplished confusing the hell out of my husband for our entire relationship, but it has ensured that I’m never,
ever
late.

Well, if we are, it’s totally his fault.

All I know is that if I’m going to get somewhere with my makeup done and my Pradas on,
without being late
, it’s going to be on Rachel time.

Snap.

You would THINK, given how much less time it takes dudes to get ready (shower, shave, dress, done), the husband would be ready to go by the time I’m all done with the fouffing.

Silly you.

Yet, it always goes something like this as we’re walking out the door: there’s the iPhone charger he can’t find but knows is
right there
(um, nope). Then there’s the fancy wallet (though of course he’s a guy, so he doesn’t call it that—but it is) that was
just right here
(um, nope again). Then there’s the jacket that you (meaning me) were supposed to pick up from the cleaners (nope, sorry again—all him) that only goes with the slacks (why do
we
call them pants and
they
call them slacks, anyway?) he’s wearing so
now he has to go change
, darn it. And of course,
another pit stop
. Oh, and
what’s the score
, honey? (Like I know.)

Let’s not even discuss the keys.

I’ve learned, after eighteen years of marriage, not to get aggravated. I simply take a nap, work on my book, or go write another Mancode piece.

Clearly, I’ve got the time.

***

“
I’ve always struggled w/ math. If it doesn’t add up to new #Prada shoes,
I just can't get my mind around the concept.”

CHICK LISTS

I’ve passed this time thing on to my girl—she totally takes after me. Her Hello Kitty watch… five minutes fast (good girl). She’s also a fashionista, loves makeup, and pretty much every day we make a list. Of what? Who cares? We just have one.

It so happens we come from a long line of list makers. So I didn’t think it at all strange when I made a list for the ideal man.

What? It wasn’t a LONG crazy lady list shot with hearts and arrows or anything, for goodness’ sake. I simply wrote it and sent it off to Santa, like any normal Jewish girl.

As if.

Chicks make lists.

For example, they say that how a man kisses a lover is indicative of his performance in bed.

Check.

I also feel that your man’s willingness to run errands for you shows how giving he’ll be in er, sexual matters.

Check, check.

Before I met my husband, I had a list. Yeah, I’m one of
those
chicks. I’d had my share of failed relationships and bad dates. I knew what I wanted in a man and what I most certainly did NOT.

Some girlfriends and I went out for my birthday (January 2, if you’d like to send presents) and so I shared with them my LIST. This was back in 1992.

What list? Why my Santa List for the Ideal Man, of course. I wanted a man who was naughty and nice. (And it was the holidays and we were drinking. What the hell.)

(I should note here that not only was it my twenty-eighth birthday but I was also moving across the country the next day on my own for a job promotion). I was free as a bird and figured what the heck? My ideal guy was out there somewhere.

On my list was the following:

• Ten to fifteen years older (Why? More mature. I was done with boys.)

• Made at least as much money as I did (Last boyfriend didn’t and that was an issue for HIM. I didn’t want to deal with that again.)

• Interested in the arts

• Knows that Bach isn’t an obstacle and spelled with an L (I may have balked at that)

• Decent enough-looking but not gorgeous (read: full of himself)

• Exercises but isn’t obsessed

• Divorced but no kids

• Great in bed (duh)

• Nice to animals and waiters

• Will bring me coffee in the morning

• Doesn’t have closet space issues

My friends understood most of my list, but wait—what the hell was this divorced crap? Why on earth would I want a man who came with the emotional baggage of divorce?

But I had thought it through. My last two long-term relationships had been with men who had loved me, but who I just knew in my heart weren’t ready for a lifetime commitment. I wanted a man who had made that commitment, had failed, but who could be a
man
and accept the responsibility to learn from those mistakes and make me his priority.

Because truthfully, how many men want to remarry multiple times? I knew there was a smart guy out there who would see what an amazing catch I was (smart, redhead, able to do numbers in my head; well, two out of three’s not bad), would treasure me and would realize how not to repeat that pattern.
That’s
what was missing in my previous relationships…that level of maturity.